Crope and Tibbett, Tibbett and Crope
by Ginger Glinda the Tangerine
Summary: The epic love story of Cropett. No longer updating. May return, one day.
1. Three Queens

_A/N: Another story, another random A/N... I recently reread Wicked, was captivated by Maguire's extreme excellence all over again, and was inspired to mimic him in my puny mortal way. So here I bring you the story of Crope and Tibbett, everyone's favourite... um, _theatrical_ Shiz students. Enjoy!_

_..._

"Three Queens," murmured Crope, looking down at the map that had been drawn for him by his father's chauffeur. He had asked the driver, an aging yet respectable Munchkin, to drop him a few blocks from the entrance to Shiz University, so as not to show off the privilege afforded him in his capacity as the son of one of the most affluent tax-collectors in the Emerald City. In hindsight, however, this choice proved to be less than wise, as Crope became lost within two minutes of losing sight of the carriage. He had spent an educational twenty minutes wandering around inner Shiz, squinting at his map, until a kindly Goat in academic garb had offered to walk him to where he needed to be.

Crope now turned to the Goat, who had introduced himself as Dillamond, and smiled. "I'd like to thank you, sir, for without you I would doubtless have wandered out of Shiz proper, and Oz knows what would have become of me then."

Dillamond nodded courteously. "It was my pleasure to introduce you to this…" (Here Dillamond acquired a look not dissimilar to someone who has just discovered some bad cheese at the back of their pantry) "This fine university. To all intents and purposes, Shiz is a good school. You will learn much here. Whether or not your lessons will be purely academic I cannot say, but…"

Before Crope could ask what Dillamond meant, the Goat indicated a path curving away to the right. "That way you will find Briscoe Hall, where I presume a Queens boy such as yourself will be taking up residence. I trust you can find your way without assistance?"

Crope considered taking offence at this, but his companion had a mischievous glint in his eye. "I hope so," he replied, smiling. "And thank you again."

Dillamond smiled back, as much as a Goat is able, and continued away down another path to Crope's left.

"Not entirely academic..." Crope muttered. Maybe there was some truth to the snatches of rumour about Three Queens that his father had refused to elaborate on.

Crope made his way towards Briscoe Hall and stopped at the back of a large group of boys who were all being assigned rooms. He touched one of them on the shoulder and murmured, "Are you all first years?"

"Through and through," the boy replied.

"So I am in the right place," said Crope, relieved.

"That depends on how green you like 'em," the boy smirked. "Avaric, by the way."

"Crope," he managed, biting back a laugh.

"Your name got called out before," Avaric whispered. "You're rooming with that bright young thing on the steps over there."

Crope turned to see a blonde, slightly effeminate-looking boy standing on the main stairs of Briscoe Hall. A strange flutter in his stomach, he thanked Avaric and walked over to his new roommate.

"You're Crope?" the boy smiled as Crope approached him.

"I am. And you're…"

"Tibbett," the blonde smiled. Crope offered his a hand to shake and he kissed it theatrically.

"Pleased to meet you, Crope."

The two boys smiled at each other, each wondering if the other felt the same sudden awareness of their extremities, and the same slight shudder in the stomach, which in Crope had always foretold a bittersweet longing that had never yet been satisfied.

"Shall we venture in?" Tibbett asked, placing a hand on Crope's shoulder.

"With pleasure," Crope smiled, and inwardly thanked Lurline, or the Unnamed God, or whoever it was that had made Dillamond show up when he had. If Crope had been left to make his own way to the university, he almost certainly would have missed this brief exchange. And those few moments of looking at Tibbett, he decided, were worth more than any number of cryptic conversations with a Goat, professor or otherwise.

...

_Review, please?_


	2. In Which Crope Investigates The Bathroom

_Thank you to everyone who reviewed the first chapter! You guys are awesome! :D_

...

Crope was delighted and frightened at the same time by the size of the room. It was about a dozen feet square, and into this space were packed two wooden beds, two large oak desks, two bookshelves and two small metal nightstands. If both boys were to lie on their beds with their arms fully extended, their fingertips would be barely half an inch apart.

While Crope was calculating this, Tibbett had already fallen comfortably onto a bed and kicked his shoes off.

"It's not much, is it?" he grinned. "Back in the Emerald City, my entrance hall was three times this size."

Crope fought to keep a neutral expressio on his face and hoped his beautiful roommate wasn't an arrogant idiot. Despite his care, however, Tibbett must have caught something, because he smiled and quickly added, "That was a joke. My father is a security advisor at the palace. It sounds deliciously upper class, but it's not." He shrugged amiably and leapt to his feet, energised by a sudden thought. "Do we get wardrobes?"

"I hope so," said Crope, thinking somewhat guiltily of the many silk shirts, dinner jackets and shoes he had managed to pack into his travelling trunk.

Tibbett laughed. It was captivating, calling to mind a particularly innocent child. "I hope there's room enough for both of us."

"If not, will one of us have to go without clothes?"

Crope considered his sentence, but by the time he realised that it was not the sort of polite conversation one made with recent acquaintances, Tibbett had fallen sideways onto the bed, gasping with his extraordinary laughter.

"My dear Crope, I do believe we will get along splendidly," he giggled, straightening to wink at Crope. "And I'd be more than happy to see you make do without your clothes."

Crope gulped and made a feeble excuse about examining the bathroom, ducking through the door and closing it just in time to shield Tibbett from making a rather ill-timed acquaintance with his stiffness.

"Oh, sweet Lurline," he whispered. The next few years were going to be interesting, to say the least. He leaned against the door and squeezed his eyes shut until he was absolutely certain the feeling had subsided.

"Crope?"

Crope glanced gingerly down at his trousers, to make perfectly sure there was no sign of his brief predicament. "Yes?" he managed.

Tibbett pulled the bathroom door open, causing Crope to stumble against him. Crope put out a hand to steady himself and took a handful of the blonde's shirt. It was a pastel cotton, perfect for the end of the dry Shiz summer, and it was flush with the residue of Tibbett's body heat.

Tibbett gently righted his roommate, but did not object to Crope's handful of shirt. "How does the bathroom look?" he asked, directing the question at Crope's lips.

"G-good," Crope murmured, and fixed Tibbett's collar, petting the shirt back into place. "It's good."

"Excellent," Tibbett grinned, and stepped back. "I'm going to start unpacking."

Crope followed Tibbett back into the main room, his fingers feeling oddly empty now they were no longer touching Tibbett's carefully considered light cotton.

...

_Reviews wil earn you a hug from the Queens boy of your choice._


	3. Closer

_I don't think this story has a disclaimer yet, so here it is: -witty disclaimer-_

_This chapter is dedicated to the lovely dramadramamaureen, who was nice enough to message me asking for updates! XD_

...

It transpired the Crope and Tibbett shared a Life Sciences class, taken by a less-than-eloquent professor by the name of Nikidik. The two boys found great enjoyment in mocking his mumbling speech, something Tibbett, an aspiring thespian, turned out to be excellent at.

The pair soon found themselves using Nikidik's voice and mannerisms to answer any questions put to them in class, to the delight of the other students. It soon turned into a regular act, with Crope fading away midsentence as Nikidik was wont to do, and Tibbett crying, "I do wish he would speak up! I can never quite mumble mumble…" Nikidik never quite worked out what was so hilarious.

It was increasingly difficult, however, for Crope to bear Life Sciences. Each time Tibbett laughed, or smiled at him behind a fringe of blonde as he pretended to peer expertly at his textbook, each time his hand accidentally brushed Crope's as they reached for their pencils, Crope felt like he was about to burst into flame. He discovered that even Tibbett's biological drawings were achingly beautiful, far surpassing anything Crope himself could create. The one time he commented on them, Tibbett merely blushed and blew some invisible dust off his textbook. It was the only time Crope had ever seen him lost for words.

The nights were even worse than Life Sciences. Over the few months they had been living together, the two boys had become closer than social constraints strictly allowed, acting more like sisters than male friends. The relationship fulfilled and at the same time punished Crope. He loved and dreaded the precious moments when Tibbett would walk out of the bathroom without a shirt, or crawl into Crope's bed after a particularly trying day. It was unbearable that the pair were so close and yet Tibbett remained so oblivious to the other boy's affections.

Crope's breaking point came when Tibbett spent the night in another room.

He returned the next morning, pink and healthy. Crope glowered at him from his bed, but his stare failed to have any impact on the blonde's mood.

"Morning," he smiled cheerfully, pulling off yesterday's shirt. "Did you sleep well?"

"Did you sleep at all?" Crope replied, too bitterly.

Tibbett dropped his shirt and turned to face Crope. "We talked. For the whole night, lengthy discourses on a topic I assumed would make you happy, but clearly I was mistaken."

Furious, he yanked a new shirt from its hanger and stormed into the bathroom, locking the door behind him.

"Tibbett," Crope cried, hurrying to the bathroom door.

"I'm still a virgin, my _dear_, but it's nice to know your opinion of me," Tibbett spat, and refused to speak another word.

That day in Life Sciences, neither boy answered a single question.

...

_Sorry this is so short... oh, and I hope no-one's confused about what the two of them were actually upset about... If you are let me know! XP_

_Reviews are totally awesome. Just sayin'._


	4. A Resolution

_A/N: Another short chapter! I think these two go a little too well together... they're far to eager to forgive each other for my liking. Oh well..._

...

If there was one thing that could be said for Tibbett, Crope discovered, it was that he could hold a grudge. He nursed his hurt feelings over the pair's argument for at least a week, barely returning to their room, and then only when Crope was asleep.

Crope finally managed to catch him alone outside the Three Queens library one evening. He had dropped some papers, and stooped to pick them up. Crope, ever a gentleman, paused to help, and scarcely realised who Tibbett was until they had both straightened.

"Tibbett," Crope began, but the blonde boy cut him off.

"If I apologise for my behaviour this past week, will you apologise for thinking me a…"

"Tart?" Crope supplied, smiling.

"I suppose," Tibbett laughed. "But will you?"

Crope reached out and touched Tibbett's arm, nearly causing him to drop his papers a second time. "Of course. I apologise most sincerely for considering you to be even remotely interested in sex."

Tibbett smirked. "Good. I'd hate to think anyone would be taking up such a pastime at our age."

"We have our studies to consider," said Crope seriously.

"Besides which, some of us aren't even fully formed yet."

Crope snorted with laughter. "You're an idiot."

"And gladly so," Tibbett announced cheerfully. "Come back to the hall. My mother had an express package of cupcakes sent over yesterday."

The two boys made their way across the grounds towards Briscoe Hall.

"I do have to ask, though," Crope began, finding to his surprise that he had reverted to the state of bumbling shyness that his first meeting with Tibbett had thrown him into. "What was it that… I mean, why… If you weren't… What _did_ you talk about?"

Tibbett stopped, set his things on the ground and fussed with his shoelace for a while.

"Tibbett?" Crope crouched next to him and pushed one blonde curl behind his ear.

"We talked about you," Tibbett announced, too loudly, and nearly brained himself on Crope's hand as he stood up.

Crope was silent, staring at the ground, not daring to breathe lest it upset some delicate universal balance and stop Tibbett speaking the words he was suddenly certain would change their (he had to admit, rather unique) situation forever.

By the time Crope breathed again, Tibbett had danced ahead of him, laughing.

"We talked about you, you ridiculous lump," he crowed. "And I never talk about things I don't like. Come, the cupcakes are waiting! Come on!"

And so the world moved on, and Crope with it, following Tibbett with a shout of laughter and feeling for the first time in his life like something worthwhile had happened to him.

...

_Yes? No? What do you think? Review..._


	5. Never Have I Ever

_A/N: I know, it's been ages... I've been super-busy with assignments and shows, but here, finally, is the next instalment. Enjoy!_

...

The cupcakes were perfectly wonderful, the company even more so. Once the boys had polished off the entire package, they sat on Crope's bed and talked. Despite Crope's best efforts, however, Tibbett refused to mention what he and the other boy – Crope had never bothered to learn his name – had talked about that night. Instead, he perused less awkward avenues, asking Crope about his family, his home, and his unusually-employed father.

"And so your father the tax collector is also an actor?" Tibbett was intrigued.

"Only when he can get work," Crope explained. "He prefers smaller parts, where he won't be noticed. He's listed in programmes under his mother's maiden name so as not to arouse suspicion."

"What's the point of that?" Tibbett laughed. "There's nothing wrong with theatre. I intend to make the Arts my major, you know." He struck a ridiculous pose and toppled off the bed, giggling.

"There's everything wrong with theatre in _high society_," said Crope, mockingly adopting an upper-class accent. "Actors are… well, there's no end of speculation as to what they get up to in their private lives."

"Dressing up as women, that sort of thing," Tibbett mused, half to himself, then gasped at Crope's saddened expression. "Oh, Oz, they really do that? I'm sorry. I was only joking."

'They don't," Crope replied adamantly. "But people think they do. There have even been rumours about my father, the most… masculine man there is."

"Oh, I'd like to meet him," Tibbett joked wiggling his eyebrows. But Crope didn't laugh; rather, he threw some cupcake wrapping at the wall in frustration.

"They don't see anything past what they _expect_ to see." He got up, restless, and wandered over to his desk. "I can never be who I want to be, because my _class_ will only gossip and condemn me and expel me and…"

Tibbett was behind him and stroking his hair in comfort in the time it took him to inhale. "It's all right," the blonde boy murmured, but his easy physicality and his gentle embrace only reinforced to Crope the one thing that, because of the constraints placed upon him by people he did not know, he could not have.

"I can never have you!" he burst out. "I can never have you."

Tibbett stiffened and stepped away from him silently.

Crope sighed and flopped into his chair, his cheeks burning, not daring to look at his roommate. "I'm sorry," he muttered. "I didn't mean it."

"Crope." Tibbett's voice was soft. He leaned on the edge of the desk and bit his lip.

"Crope," he repeated, and frowned down at his gently wrinkled trousers. The light grey put Crope in mind of Tibbett's laugh, youthful and innocent but at the same time infuriatingly attractive.

"Crope," the blonde said a third time, and this time Crope knew there was no anger or disgust in him. He stood and pushed back his chair. His nose brushed Tibbett's hair, and his breath painted a blush across the other boy's cheek. The closeness was excruciating, too much to bear and at the same time too perfect to shatter.

Crope was floating out of his skin. His fingers brushed the underside of Tibbett's wrist, and Tibbett's eyes fluttered closed, and his hand brushed across the desk and his fingers found Crope's and held tight. They stood, pressed together from shoulder to ankle, both afraid to breathe lest they burst apart from sheer feeling.

Crope could no longer stand it. He turned Tibbett's face towards his to find it filled with the same longing that pervaded every inch of him. Neither boy could say who started it, but somehow their mouths were pressed together, their lips parting, tongues darting, exploring, their hands pulling each other closer to finally grasp the elusive dream each of them had been chasing since that first soft, shy moment.


	6. Towards A Lonely Summer

_A/N: Yes, guys, I know. It's been four months since I last updated this story. But I'm trying to update more now, and I have the wonderful alinaandalion helping me out, so I promise these boys won't get neglected so much anymore. :)_

...

In the days before the end of the year and that first, magical kiss, the pair had grown even closer, despite all the evidence pointing to the conclusion that such a feat was not possible. Each lived from evening to evening, when they would lock the door of their dorm and continue the journey of discovering both themselves and each other.

Yet when the inevitable summer holidays began to loom, as inevitable events often do, Crope and Tibbett both came to the sudden, brutal realisation that they would have to separate. They each nursed their silent dread for days, until the week before summer break began.

It was Tibbett who first dared to broach the subject, in the dark, blurry hours of early morning when dream and reality become interchangeable. He lay, brimming with nervousness, with one hand combing Crope's hair absently, and the other anxiously pinching the skin at the base of his own neck.

"Crope," he murmured, his voice losing its way in the warm air. "Crope… We have to leave next week."

"Already? Goodness, and I barely know you," Crope mumbled into Tibbett's chest. "You haven't even been on top yet…"

"Crope!" Tibbett sat up, suddenly, and Crope tumbled towards the other end of the bed with a squeak of surprise. "I'm being serious, for once in my life."

"Oh, horrors," Crope moaned theatrically, repositioning himself with his head in Tibbett's lap.

"We won't see each other every day over the summer, you know," Tibbett tried, realising too late that it was probably not particularly wise to discuss serious matters with Crope so late at night.

"I can imagine, though, can't I?" Crope grinned, turning his head to leave a fluttering trail of kisses down Tibbett's abdomen. Tibbett arched his back and bucked his hips towards Crope's face, reigning himself in just before he lost all sensibility.

"Sweet Oz…" he whispered. "The next time I want to have a serious conversation with you, I'll make sure to wear clothes."

Crope sat up and kissed Tibbett's forehead. "I'm listening."

Tibbett threw himself forwards to lie on his stomach. "In summer, we won't see as much of each other."

"We'll see enough," Crope murmured reassuringly, massaging Tibbett's back. "It's not like we live too far apart to travel."

"I'm worried," said Tibbett, overwhelmed with a sense of helplessness. "There are a lot of beautiful boys in the Emerald City."

Crope fell perfectly still and silent for such a period that Tibbett wondered if he was still there at all. Finally Crope leaned forward to whisper in the blonde boy's ear, "Trust me, my dear, my sweet, my life. I love you."

Tibbett rolled over and stared into what little of Crope's face he could make out in the darkness. "I trust you."

"Excellent," Crope smiled, and settled back into Tibbett, both arms wrapped around him. "I'm going to get some sleep. If I stay awake much longer I won't be responsible for my actions."

And so the next week passed in a blur of wasted class time and promises to study. Crope found himself almost wishing that he and Tibbett hadn't shared a room. Had that been so, he would already be used to sleeping alone, and wouldn't know and therefore be able to miss Tibbett's scent, the way he lay tangled in his blankets and in Crope, his clothes cluttering up what precious floorspace they had, even the way he spent far longer in the bathroom than the most meticulous high society ladies. It was too much to be parted so suddenly and so completely.

Tibbett, on the other hand, eschewed all forms of rational worry for a rapidly growing sense of complete panic. He seized every moment he could to be with Crope, fearfully counting down the days until they were to be parted. In typically overdramatic fashion, he acted as if one or both of them were to be executed the moment they walked out of the Three Queens gates. Crope bore Tibbett's panic with as much calm as he could muster, under the circumstances. He spent what little time he had away from Tibbett flinging his belongings haphazardly into his various travelling cases, trying to pack as discreetly as possible due to the fact that the mere sight of a suitcase sent Tibbett into a frenzy.

Yet despite both boys' best efforts, the last week of term arrived at the appointed hour, and the threat of separation became clearer still. On the night before they were to leave, the two boys sat on Crope's bed and fed each other pieces of cupcake, talking about anything that came to mind, yet skilfully avoiding the topic of their imminent departure. Tibbett delved into long and complex fantasies about what the two of them would do when they were middle-aged and married to each other. Crope contested that they would both have wives and children, and conduct an illicit affair in shady rooms of Emerald City bars, but Tibbett found the thought of sleeping with anyone other than Crope so abhorrent that Crope was forced to discontinue that particular line of thought.

It grew light without either boy noticing, until a shaft of sunlight announced its presence by shining through a gap in the thin curtains and spearing Crope in the eyes.

Tibbett let out a cry and flung himself forward, clutching Crope's foot. "It's tomorrow!"

"It is," Crope concurred, wriggling his toes beneath the blonde boy's fingers.

"We leave today," Tibbett murmured, burying his face in the mattress.

"I'm going to come and see you every day," Crope assured him. "Tomorrow, for instance, we're going to a ridiculously overpriced café to drink too much iced tea. And the next day I'll take you walking in the markets just outside the palace, and we'll buy each other pointless trinkets."

"Can I sleep at your house and pretend to be sleeping in the guestroom, only to sneak into your room in the middle of the night?" Tibbett asked, raising his head from the bed and smiling.

"Of course," Crope replied, kissing him. "I look forward to it."

Tibbett smiled, peaceful and dazed from lack of sleep. He got up and stretched, catlike, before leaping off the bed and pulling Crope up after him. "I can be your secret lover," he whispered, delighted, his arms encircling the other boy's waist.

"I always wanted one of those," Crope smiled, and kissed Tibbett's nose. "But you need to pack, my dear. We have to be gone in an hour."

"An hour?" Tibbett's face fell. "We only have an hour left?"

Crope kissed him deeply, and more than a little sorrowfully, if only to remove the look of horror from his face. "We have all summer," he whispered. "Markets and cafes and-"

Tibbett pulled away from Crope and began scooping up his clothes from where they lay in various wrinkled heaps on the floor. "Markets and cafes and walking and mindless sex," he grinned. "All with you, of course."

Crope stooped and picked up a pair of Tibbett's trousers. "It sounds perfectly delightful," he smiled, and pecked Tibbett's cheek.

It was natural to the two boys that the peck developed into something much more, and thirty of their precious sixty minutes had flown by before either realised what was happening. Nevertheless, both boys managed to get out of Briscoe Hall in time to meet their respective carriages at the gates, despite their clothing being slightly dishevelled, and with neither's hair looking as if it had been brushed since the previous week.

Crope turned to Tibbett, his eyes moist, and stroked the blonde boy's cheek. "I'll see you tomorrow, won't I?"

"Without question," Tibbett assured him, and sealed the pact with a kiss.

"I love you," both boys breathed simultaneously.

Crope smiled and kissed Tibbett again. "Do you promise to miss me?"

Tibbett kissed Crope's forehead and picked up his suitcase. "Until there's no breath left in my body," he promised, and elegantly mounted the steps of his father's hired carriage.


	7. There's A Moment You Know

"I'm home!" Tibbett called, throwing open the door of his house and striking a flamboyant pose. His mother poked her head out of a doorway further down the passage, and smiled at her son, rushing forwards to embrace him.

"Tibby," she smiled. "How was your trip, dear?"

Tibbett blinked; the use of his childhood nickname was jarring after so many months of being known by his full, but the jolt reminded him of how much he had missed his mother. He took a step back to take in how much – or how little, perhaps – she had changed.

Talka's smile was as bright as ever, her eyes shining in her healthy, if not slim, face. Tibbett noticed fondly that strands of silver had begun to wind themselves through her famous blonde hair.

"The journey was fine," he told her, choosing to spare her the details: he had spent the carriage ride alternately missing Crope and fantasising about their proposed summer together. He did add, "Crope and I have plans to meet up over the summer."

"Oh, good," Talka said vaguely, and her smile somehow made the transition from welcoming to fake without her appearing to change expression. "Let's get your cases inside, shall we?" she continued brightly, clapping her hands together. "I'll get your father."

Talka turned and called into the house proper. "Asinan, darling, Tibbett's home!"

Tibbett's father emerged from his study (it was seen as immensely fashionable in the Emerald City for every man above a certain age to own, and spend large amounts of time in, a study). He clasped Tibbett's shoulders and looked him up and down.

"You're nothing but skin and bone, boy," Asinan grumbled. "What do they feed you in that place?"

Without giving Tibbett a chance to answer, the older man lumbered down the front steps to collect Tibbett's travelling cases, muttering about how many clothes the boy had packed.

"Yes, hello, Father," Tibbett called. "Delightful to see you, too."

"Oh, hush," Talka murmured. "He's had a hard week, Tibby. He's pleased to see you, really."

Tibbett was overcome with affection for his mother and her naïveté. He and his father had never been close, and to be honest, Asinan's expressing concern about Tibbett's weight had been more of a welcome than the blonde had expected. Impulsively, he wrapped his arms around Talka's waist and kissed her cheek.

"And I am happy to see you," he smiled, as she rested her head on his shoulder.

That night at dinner, Tibbett broached the subject of Crope again. He had his suspicions about his mother's earlier reaction, but was determined to prove himself wrong. Halfway through his steak, Tibbett announced, "Tomorrow, Crope and I intend to-"

"Tomorrow we are leaving for Quox to stay with your mother's sister," Asinan interrupted, and raised his wine glass to his lips, signalling that there was to be no further discussion of the matter.

Tibbett, outraged, ignored this. "We're doing _what_?"

Talka took on an expression of mild indigestion. "Tibbett, please!"

The desperation that had burned inside Tibbett for the last week of the term at Shiz returned with a passion. "Why didn't you tell me?" he demanded, glaring at his father. "I have plans! We have to-"

"You and this boy of yours don't _have _to do anything," Asinan stated blankly. "He was your _roommate_, for the Unnamed God's sake, boy! He's probably forgotten you already. Now stop making such a fuss and finish your meal."

Tears stung Tibbett's eyes, and he stared sullenly at the table. "Crope wouldn't forget me," he insisted quietly.

"Tibby, darling, let's talk about this later," Talka suggested, patting her son's hand.

"We will not talk about this at all," Asinan contradicted her. "All this… Philosophy and newfangled education and such has gone to the boy's head, Talka. That's all it is." Asinan's fork clinked against his plate as he scraped up an elusive piece of vegetable, ignoring his son.

Tibbett had never cried in front of his father, not even when he was an infant. Asinan abhorred weakness, especially in men, and Tibbett was well aware of this. And Tibbett had always respected his father, if only because he was afraid of the consequences should he not. Ever since he was old enough to be fully aware of his father's expectations, Tibbett had strived to live up to them, if only when he knew his father was watching. He had tried to be strong, to be the hard-working, masculine, respectful son Asinan so badly wanted. Yet his year at Shiz, his year with Crope, had allowed Tibbett to become someone much closer to himself, a Tibbett who wore pink, who could lose track of the time talking and go for days without sleep because of it, who could fall in love with his roommate and cry at the dinner table.

And so, for Tibbett, his relationship with his father ended the moment the first tear struck the tablecloth.


	8. A Cafe and a Confrontation

_A/N: This chapter is a little shorter, but it is one of the turning points of the story, so I wanted it to stand alone. Length should hopefully increase again next chapter!_

_..._

Crope and Tibbett had arranged to meet at a café on the outskirts of the City, and Crope arrived moments after it opened. Tibbett was nowhere to be seen, but Crope allowed himself a two-minute window in which not to panic. Following that, he tried to remember if he had specified exactly which little café on the outskirts of the City he had intended to meet at, and if Tibbett had in fact retained that information. It was the first time Crope wished that the physical attraction between he and Tibbett was not of such magnitude; he would have liked to have been sure that at any given point in time, Tibbett was listening to Crope's words and not looking at Crope's crotch.

Five minutes after Crope gave himself over to panic, he saw a head of lush blonde hair making its way towards him.

"Tibbett!" he called out, waving enthusiastically. It was a moment later that he realised that the head of hair was the wrong shade of luscious blonde to be his beloved, and that it was attached to a body that was unmistakably female.

Embarrassed, Crope fixed his eyes on a point several feet to the left of the blonde woman's head and waved again to an imaginary friend, pretending it was this nonexistent acquaintance he had been calling to the whole time.

Crope was most confused, therefore, when the blonde woman stopped in front of him and spoke his name.

"Crope," he repeated, then came to his senses. "Yes, Crope is me," he amended.

"Yes, I know," the woman replied, and tucked a strand of silver hair behind her ear. "I've come to talk to you about Tibbett."

"My favourite subject, I assure you," Crope smiled. "I'm sorry, your name was…?"

The woman gave a tight-lipped smile. "Talka Peridot," she introduced herself. "Tibbett's mother."

Crope attempted to reply, and managed to fumble a bow, but the growing sense of dread that was threading its way through him made forming words impossible. After a moment, he managed to choke out, "Pleased to… is Tibbett alright?"

Talka nodded shortly. "He and his father are on their way to my sister's home in Quox," she said. "I am travelling behind with the help and our luggage. Tibbett insisted that I cancel your engagement with him in person."

Crope clenched his jaw. He would not cry in front of this woman. "Tibbett's not coming," he said dully, half intending it as a question and half questioning the reality of it.

"He most certainly is not," Talka snapped, and Crope saw, for the briefest moment, that under her polite demeanour flashed a cold, sharp anger of which he was the main target. Talka continued to speak, her teeth clenched, her voice carrying just far enough for Crope to pick up each steely word. "Whatever disgusting behaviour you forced my son into this past year, whatever you made him falsely believe, we fully intend to purge you from his life altogether."

Crope took a step back, reeling at the intensity of this woman's disgust for him. He opened his mouth to speak, but Talka cut him off, taking a step closer to him, her lip curled in distaste and dislike.

"The Unnamed God have mercy on your kind," she spat. "Tibbett shall have none of it, we will make sure of that. If he never lays eyes on you again, those eyes will be blessed indeed."

It was the first and last time Crope ever hit a woman.

Talka turned her face back towards him slowly, not even touching the fading red imprint of Crope's hand across her cheek. "Well, now," she smirked. "Maybe I was wrong. Perhaps there is some man in you after all."

Crope watched as Talka turned and walked away, allowing his unshed tears to bathe his cheeks. He had a sudden and desolate vision of a lifetime without Tibbett, without anything approaching the unity they had felt.

Crope choked out a sob and allowed his tears to fall unchecked, standing alone outside a lonely café on the outskirts of the City.


	9. The Holiness of Love

_A/N: Again, apologies for the sparse updates! University and the show I'm currently performing in have eaten most of my time in the past month or so._

...

Crope walked into his home in tears, almost colliding with his father, who was on his way out. Pipio caught his son's arm and smoothed the boy's hair away from his face.

"Crope, what's going on? I thought you were meeting Tibb-"

"Tibbett's gone," Crope choked bitterly. "He's off to Quox with his parents, who are both shining examples of… paragons of decency and sympathy."

Pipio pulled Crope into a hug, letting his son sob onto his shoulder. "He left without saying goodbye?"

Crope nodded, sniffed, raised his head. "He didn't want- he wouldn't have- they made him. Stupid, ignorant, Unionist-"

Pipio held up a hand to silence Crope. "When did being Unionist become so deplorable?" he said softly. "You're from Unionist stock yourself, Crope."

"I know," Crope sniffed, "But you know, Pa, there's belief and there's crazy, fundamentalist, Crope-must-be-a-sexual-predator-because-our-dear-Tibbett-would-never-fall-in-love-with-a-man belief."

Pipio froze, appalled, his hand hovering just above Crope's head in an aborted gesture of comfort. "Crope must be a what?"

Crope jerked away from his father's embrace, eschewing Pipio's offer of a handkerchief in favour of his sleeve. "I didn't do anything," he snapped. "I love Tibbett, I would never-"

Pipio spoke his son's name, his voice deep with uncharacteristic gravitas. "You're both still very young. What you see as love might not be-"

"Father!" Crope yelled, fresh tears springing to his eyes. He had always thought his father trusted him completely, but faced with the uncertainty in Pipio's eyes, he was no longer sure. "Do you really think I'm so immature- so _stupid_- that I can't tell love from rape? Sweet Lurline, I thought I knew you."

Pipio was reaching for his son's arm, apologising, before Crope had finishes speaking. "No, Crope, that's not what I meant-"

"You taught me the holiness of love," Crope continued determinedly, no longer speaking entirely to Pipio, but to the memory of Talka that glared at him every time he closed his eyes. "Is my love, now, somehow different because of who it's intended for? Is that what all this is about?"

Pipio ran a hand through his hair and bit his lip to stop his frustration from spreading across his face. "I would have said exactly the same thing had Tibbett been a girl," he said evenly. "I think you and he are still young, in the scheme of things, and I don't think it's wise to rush into anything. I know you care for Tibbett very much," he emphasised, raising his voice as Crope tried to interrupt, "But your feelings could change. I'm not saying they definitely will, but-"

Pipio sighed, and cupped Crope's chin in his palm, looking into eyes that were an almost perfect replica of his own. "Be careful, my son. Your mother and I will support you, and Tibbett if necessary, no matter what happens. But the world will not be kind to you, and neither will your own hearts."

He looked into his son's face for a long time, then leaned forward and kissed Crope's forehead, a gesture of love he had not employed since Crope was very young. Pipio held Crope's eyes a moment longer before he turned and walked down the front steps and out into the street.

Crope watched his father go, feeling simultaneously young and suddenly adult. Having Pipio speak to him as if he were a trusted companion gave Crope a strange feeling of maturity, a feeling he was not entirely ready for. His relationship with Tibbett, when viewed through his father's eyes in the grey light of adulthood, took on a new weight and a new seriousness. Yet Crope was determined to ensure that their love remained not only as carefree and innocent as it had been during their year at Shiz, but also as existent. Taking a deep breath, Crope walked into his house, his mind already burning with plans to rescue Tibbett.

...

_I know nothing happened in this chapter, but I felt I needed to have something like this. Even though most of Maguire's characters are at the very least bicurious, there's very little in the way of discussion of Ozian views on homosexuality in the Wicked saga. Feel free to comment on/debate the views expressed here in a review!_


	10. Myrtle the Mute

A/N: Wow... this story has not been updated for some time, and for that I apologise. Sorry for leaving you guys hanging for so long! The story is now (hopefully) back on a fairly regular basis, at least until next semester. xD Enjoy!

...

_Dearest Tibbett,_

_This letter is not from Crope. It is, in fact, from your dear, chaste young lady love, Myrtle the Mute, whom you met at Shiz this year and had started a tentative relationship with when the evil, conniving Crope stole you away. Myrtle is coming to see you in a week's time, and plans to take you to her family's summer house near Lake Chorge, where you will meet every last one of her devoutly Unionist extended family, including dear little Pia, the blind, one-legged piano virtuoso. Myrtle extends her warmest regards to your family and hopes that one day she will be able to speak and tell your parents exactly how she feels about their opinion of Crope's feelings for you._

_Sincerely,_

_Myrtle._

_P.S. Dearest, darling Tibbett, I swear, I'm coming to get you. Yours ever, Crope._

…

_Dear, sweet Myrtle,_

_The whole situation sounds positively delightful. I eagerly await your visit and the resultant escape from the horror that is my mother's family. Interestingly, I have a cousin named Pia, but she doesn't play the piano, and is most definitely not blind. If you do happen to see Crope, please tell him that I miss him with all my heart and that every day I wake up without him is like another nail in my coffin. If he would be so kind as to arrange a meeting between the two of us before my tragic, untimely death it would be much appreciated._

_Love,_

_Tibbett._

…

_To my darling Tibbett,_

_If you, in return, would be so kind as to accept my visitation upon your mother's relations' singularly lovely abode one week from the date at the top of this letter, I would be most delighted; indeed, I feel that my glee would be practically incontrollable._

_Yours,_

_Myrtle._

…

"I still don't understand why you didn't tell us about Myrtle sooner, dear," Talka said absently, fixing Tibbett's collar for the twelfth time.

Tibbett stepped away from his mother and her fussing. "I told you, I wasn't speaking to you. And I was… still confused over my feelings for Crope, who of course, I now realise was a horrible young boy who was only after… indecentness."

Talka looked around the small conservatory they stood in. "Do you think this is- well, I mean she has a summer house in Lake Chorge. Don't you think this house is a little below par, considering what she's used to?"

Tibbett smiled fondly. "She'll be here for three minutes at the most, Mother. Barely more than a clock-tick, and certainly not enough time to critique the décor."

"Oh, I know, but still, she comes from money," Talka frowned. "She will notice something to object to, I'm sure of it."

"Myrtle is the most unobjectionable young woman I have ever met," Tibbett informed her, and bent down to check the buckles on his suitcase. He was still uncertain as to exactly how Crope planned to stage this grand rescue, but he assumed it all hinged on the fabrication of Myrtle. Did Crope plan to use a young female friend to pose as Tibbett's true love? Obviously the fact that she couldn't talk was important, Tibbett mused, but he had no idea how Crope intended to save him.

The knock on the door made both Tibbett and his mother jump. Talka opened the door and smiled broadly at the young girl that stood before her. "You must be Myrtle," she said, and stepped aside to allow the visitor entrance. Tibbett looked up from his suitcase and had to bite the inside of his mouth to keep from squealing with delight.

Before Tibbett stood "Myrtle": dressed in a conservative full-length dress that bagged at the hips, giving the impression of femininity, and with her long, dark hair tastefully arranged so that it obscured the rather striking broadness of her shoulders. Her head was lowered politely, but Tibbett, crouching by his luggage, was at the perfect angle to see Crope's features poking out from under Myrtle's hair, his eyes dancing with mirth.

Tibbett stood up and hugged Crope, carefully keeping his hands where his mother could see them. "Hello, Myrtle," he smiled. "I've missed you."

"Let's get your things into the coach," Talka said brightly. "Myrtle, dear, are your parents with you?"

Crope shook his head and glanced at Tibbett, indicating that the blonde should explain. "Uh… Her parents are already out at the lake," Tibbett invented quickly. "Myrtle was on her way back from seeing a… a specialist in the city here. To see if anything could be done about her condition."

Crope nodded gravely and squeezed Tibbett's hand. Tibbett smiled at his lover, then moved away for the bare minimum amount of time it took to pile his suitcases into Crope's hired carriage. Once everything was in order to Talka's satisfaction, Tibbett took Crope's arm and helped him into the coach, then turned to his mother.

"Have a safe journey," Talka smiled. "And Tibby, are you sure you don't want to say goodbye to your father?"

"I'm sure," Tibbett said. He stepped into his mother's arms and hugged her tightly. Despite her reaction to Tibbett's relationship with Crope, she was still his mother, and simply for that he could almost forgive her her prejudice.

"Don't forget to thank Myrtle's family for their hospitality," Talka instructed. "And you're sure they've organised a coach back to Shiz?"

"Yes, Mother," Tibbett smiled, one foot on the step up into the coach. "Everything's arranged, everything's… peachy."

"Well, I'm glad you're so much happier," Talka said. "And Tibby, it's not too late for me to contact the school and get you moved out of the room with-"

"It's fine, Mother," Tibbett interrupted. "I'll sort it out once we're back at school." He peeked into the coach. "We should be heading off now. We don't want to be travelling when it's still dark."

Tibbett climbed into the carriage and closed the door behind him, taking Crope's hand and squeezing it with all his strength.

"Alright," Talka smiled. "Enjoy the rest of the summer, won't you? Be sure and write!"

"I will!" Tibbett called as the coach began to move off. "Goodbye!"

Both boys were silent as the coach rattled off down Tibbett's aunt's driveway. Talka stood and waved them off, growing smaller and smaller until she was nothing but a blonde smear against the side of the house. The coach turned onto the road and Talka disappeared from view. Tibbett let out a breath, then looked at Crope, who still wore the same shy, submissive expression.

"You peach!" Tibbett cried, pulling off Crope's wig and holding the other boy's face in both hands. "You absolute shining, delicious peach!"

Crope let out a delighted laugh. "Oh, Oz, your face when you saw me…"

"I can't believe you did that!" Tibbett crowed.

"Neither can I," Crope giggled, clutching Tibbett's wrists.

"You dressed like a girl-"

"Your mother didn't even-"

"How did you find the house? How did you know the address?"

"My father's a tax collector," Crope smiled. "He has your family on file, and it was a small step from there to your extended, Quoxian family."

Tibbett was sure his face was about to crack under the pressure of his smile. "I love you, Crope Cariad."

"I love you too," Crope smiled, then gave Tibbett a wicked look. "What say you help me out of this dress?"

The driver of Crope's hired coach was a tiktok man; in hindsight, Crope thought, this was a wise choice. A sentient driver might have objected to the amount of movement going on in the carriage behind him, yet as it was the coach kept rolling on towards its destination, while inside Crope and Tibbett travelled to a different place entirely.


	11. Interlude

_A/N: I'm sure this update is quicker than the last one... this chapter has actually been sitting on my computer for a few weeks, and I just forgot to post it. Sorry about that!_

...

Predictably, Crope and Tibbett did not spend the remaining days of summer at Lake Chorge, but rather at Crope's house, attended happily, if slightly warily, by Pipio. Crope's mother had died when Crope was young, and Pipio had since more than made up for the absence of a maternal presence in the house by taking to various household tasks with gusto – when the mood suited him. Thus Crope and Tibbett were treated to myriad exotic dishes and clean clothes three times a week (Crope jokingly told his father he would be bringing a boyfriend home every summer from then on, as previously his shirts would come back to him a week after their last use), and in general lived in such comfort that Tibbett offered to employ Pipio permanently.

The boys were allowed a degree of privacy, but had to sleep in separate rooms. Tibbett was rather excited about this, as it meant he could act out his fantasy of sneaking into Crope's room in the middle of the night. When Pipio left for work each morning, the boys would watch him leave through the front windows, then pounce on each other as soon as he was out of sight. This plan generally worked well, except on one morning when Pipio forgot his umbrella and had to come back for it, forcing a partially-dressed Tibbett to come up with a hasty cover story about looking for a clean shirt, as he had spilt coffee on the last one, while Crope ducked into the kitchen and closed the door, stuffing an apple into his mouth to keep from giggling.

Besides reacquainting themselves with each other, the boys spent their days visiting cafés, lying half-asleep in the sunlight on Crope's back porch, and formulating increasingly bizarre letters to Tibbett's parents about his supposed adventures with Myrtle and her family at Lake Chorge.

It was after sending one such letter, detailing Tibbett's lakeside picnic with Myrtle and her fire-eating triplet uncles, that the boys were lying on Crope's bed, their shirts undone to combat the heat while remaining chaste enough to satisfy Pipio. Tibbett was examining the ceiling, and Crope was examining the underside of Tibbett's jaw, so engrossed in his task that he jumped when the jaw moved and Tibbett spoke.

"I can't ever go back to my dear parents," he said contemplatively, his eyes still fixed on the ceiling.

"You could," Crope replied, a little confused. "They don't know you're here. They haven't outright disowned you."

"I can't keep lying," sighed Tibbett. "As fun as it is," he added quickly, beginning to giggle. "I don't know if it was enough to only let Myrtle have three uncles, though."

"There had to only be three," Crope reminded him. "It's too implausible that Myrtle's darling grandmother Transcendia could have come up with another name to rhyme with Korem, Dorem and Lorem."

"Well, she could have, I suppose, but she'd have mixed them all up."

"The Ipsum family aside," Crope said gently. "What about your parents?"

Tibbett sighed, and threw an arm up towards the ceiling, then let it drop over his face. "I don't like lying to them. I don't like not being myself. Telling them stories about Myrtle the Mute is delightful, but what happens if I have to marry her? Or if they want to meet her family of Unionist circus freaks?"

Crope was silent, considering Tibbett's reasoning. "Still… Tibbett, your mother. She does love you rather a lot."

"If she really loved me, she'd love you," Tibbett declared, and got off the bed, pulling at the hem of his shirt as he stared out Crope's window. Crope got up and stood behind his lover, circling his arms around the other boy's waist and resting his chin on Tibbett's shoulder. Tibbett relaxed into Crope and sighed.

"You're a peach," Crope murmured, in an attempt to cheer Tibbett up. "You're a fuzzy, round, adorable little fruit."

"Oh, round, am I?" Tibbett laughed, turning to face Crope and poking him in the ribs. Crope giggled and backed away.

"Well, you have been eating an awful lot of my father's cooking…"

"If you're not careful I'll leave you for your father," Tibbett announced, preposterously, and backed Crope up against the bed, still tickling him.

"You will not, by Oz," Crope gasped, struggling for breath. He fell backwards onto the bed and allowed Tibbett to sit on top of him, then grabbed the blonde boy's wrists. With his tongue he gently pushed at the web of skin between two of Tibbett's fingers. Tibbett squealed and yanked his hands away.

"I yield!" he laughed, tumbling onto the mattress beside Crope.

"Oh, good," Crope grinned, and sat up to settle on top of Tibbett, one hand tracing a gentle passage across the blonde's abdomen. Tibbett shivered with delight.

"You'll have to stay here forever," Crope said softly, and Tibbett smiled.

"I can't think of anything more lovely," he replied, gently guiding Crope's hand lower.

By the time Pipio returned home, the boys were asleep, tangled in each other beneath a single cotton sheet. Each young face wore a matching expression of perfect contentment. Pipio, looking on the door to check on them, simply smiled to himself and left them to their peace.


End file.
